


To Find A Home

by MissCrazyWriter321



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas Isn't Canon, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Grieving, Post-Rittenhouse, References to canon character deaths, alcohol mention, all ships are background - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:28:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24648736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissCrazyWriter321/pseuds/MissCrazyWriter321
Summary: It’s all so wonderfully domestic, he can hardly breathe. He doesn’t belong here, among these happy, peaceful people. They’re healing, not letting the darkness of their past carry into the present, and he can only bring them down. Throat tight, he stands, about to make his excuses, when Rufus speaks.“Hey, Flynn, Jiya and I wanted to ask you something.”Curious, he pauses. What could they possibly want to ask him? “Yes?”A moment passes, as Jiya and Rufus exchange nervous glances, before Rufus clears his throat. “We were wondering if… If you wanted to move in with us?”
Relationships: Garcia Flynn/Lucy Preston, Jessica Logan/Wyatt Logan, Rufus Carlin & Garcia Flynn & Jiya, Rufus Carlin/Jiya Marri
Comments: 15
Kudos: 52





	To Find A Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [newisalwaysbetter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/newisalwaysbetter/gifts), [Elisexyz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisexyz/gifts).



> So, this has been sitting like this in my drafts for ages, but I wanted to write more, so I left it alone. I really think it can stand on its own, though, so I'm going to go ahead and post it. If I'm ever inspired to write more, I can always add another chapter. 
> 
> Please enjoy "Completely self-indulgent fic where Flynn gets the love and comfort he deserves." (Maybe it'll make up for that last chapter of Forgotten...)

When it’s all said and done, he goes home. He declines Mason’s offer to buy him a new house, because he desperately wants something that resembles normalcy. Something safe and familiar. Something Rittenhouse hasn’t taken from him. So he packs up the handful of things he holds dear, (treasures collected in his bunker room over time: the stuffed tiger from Lucy, the birthday card from Jiya, one particularly comfy turtleneck, and half a dozen books,) and drives back to his old house.

It’s a mistake. 

He knows it almost immediately. 

Everywhere he looks, traces of Iris and Lorena linger, taunting him. The photographs on the walls, the faded drawings on the table, and the clothes hanging in his closet all remind him of a time long lost, a time he’ll never be able to recover. 

Some things are missing, taken for evidence; his daughter’s room must look like it’s been ransacked, though he doesn’t dare look. But since it was still considered an ongoing investigation until this past week, most everything is intact. Clearly, family hasn’t been allowed to come through, to take mementos of his wife and child. He should probably make some calls, should give everyone an opportunity to do that, but he doesn’t quite have the strength for it.

Later, he promises himself, mostly aware that later will never come. 

He sleeps on the couch, cannot bear to crawl into the bed he once shared with his wife (He thinks he can still smell her perfume on the pillows, though it must be a trick of the mind). He forgets to shower once, then twice, until he can’t remember the last time he’s been clean (Iris’s bubble bath sits on the edge of the tub, and he can’t even look at it without shattering).

Rather than face the world, he stays home, watching TV, or simply staring at the ceiling, willing something to change. He orders takeout online, and gives whoever delivers it a wad of cash, rather than lingering long enough to talk.  _ I’ll start cleaning tomorrow,  _ he promises himself, almost every night. But every morning, he wakes up to a pounding in his head, an ache in his heart, and not an ounce of strength. 

So he sleeps, and he drinks, and he pretends that everything will get better, as the months slip away.

-

_ “We’re all going to lunch together tomorrow; want to come?”  _

He blinks down at the screen, staring at the text. Lucy must have sent it the night before, but he’s forgotten to charge his phone the past couple of days, so he’s just now seeing it. Below the question, there’s a time and an address, for a diner not far from his house. 

Noon. 

Half an hour.

He can make it, if he hurries. For a moment, he considers sending her an apology text, but he misses her so much. (Misses all of them, if he’s honest.) And the thought of disappointing her, of telling her he’s  _ sorry, he just can’t make it… _

Well. He showers. It’s a difficult ordeal, but he stares stubbornly ahead, refusing to look at back at the edge of the tub, and in the end, he doesn’t break. Getting dressed is another challenge, because he hasn’t done laundry since his return, but he finally finds an old turtleneck in the back of his closet, and he pulls on a pair of jeans.

It’s close, but he makes it. 

Lucy’s smile when she sees him makes it worth it. She positively lights up, relief dancing in her eyes. “I didn’t think you were coming.” 

Guilt washes over him. She was worried about him, he realizes. “My phone was out of charge,” he explains, surprised by how easily he can play it off. It isn’t really a big deal, is it? Phones run out of charge (Just like people do). She never has to know. 

The next few minutes are a whirlwind of hugs and laughter, and some of the tension in his gut releases. It’s the most he’s been touched since the fall of Rittenhouse, and he’s surprised by how much he’s missed it. He clings a little too tightly, but then, they all seem reluctant to let go. 

Sherry Logan has her father’s eyes and her mother’s smile, and she’s asleep before the appetizers arrive. It’s both wonderful and terrible to see her, to watch her snuggling up against Wyatt, peaceful and safe. Oblivious to the dangers of the world, the way any child should be. Deserves to be. More than once, he finds himself zoned out of the conversation, keeping watch over her. To his surprise, Wyatt doesn’t comment, although he definitely notices. 

TIme flies by. Soon, his food is gone, though he can’t quite recall eating it. Lucy is sitting beside him, knee brushing his, and it’s a balm to his heart, as is the warm banter from the rest of the team. Jiya and Rufus are debating Star Wars versus Star Trek again, Mason is complaining about the scientific improbabilities of both, and Jessica is giving them each ammo, riling them up farther. 

“I mean, Star Trek has tribbles. That’s pretty hard to top. On the other hand, Han Solo is way better-looking than Kirk.” 

Wyatt only chuckles, shaking his head, and an irritating wave of pride hits Flynn. Once upon a time, a comment like that would have drawn jealous scowls from the younger man, but he’s come so far. Counseling is clearly good for him; he seems happier than ever, and Jessica does, as well. At peace, both of them. 

Agent Christopher-Denise, as she insists on them calling her now-is rolling her eyes, muttering something about how she should have stayed home, but a smile tugs at her lips, and she can’t quite hide it.

It’s all so wonderfully domestic, he can hardly breathe. He doesn’t belong here, among these happy, peaceful people. They’re healing, not letting the darkness of their past carry into the present, and he can only bring them down. Throat tight, he stands, about to make his excuses, when Rufus speaks. 

“Hey, Flynn, Jiya and I wanted to ask you something.” 

Curious, he pauses. What could they possibly want to ask  _ him?  _ “Yes?” 

A moment passes, as Jiya and Rufus exchange nervous glances, before Rufus clears his throat. “We were wondering if… If you wanted to move in with us?”

Well, there’s a lot to unpack in that question. “I’m flattered, but I didn’t think you’d miss my snoring that much,” he teases, trying to stall for time. Maybe he’s misunderstanding. Maybe they just want him to come over for dinner sometimes, or-or-

He doesn’t know. But they can’t possibly be saying what it sounds like. 

Jiya laughs, relaxing a little, as if he’s already told her what she wants to hear. “Doesn’t feel like home without it.”

Rufus side-eyes her. “Trust me, you snore enough for both of you.”

“Jiya? Snore? Never.” Banter, Flynn can do. 

Jiya sobers slightly. “Seriously, though. We-we have an extra room, and the truth is…” Her gaze drops to the table. “Since we’ve stopped chasing-” She falters, glancing around the diner. It’s safe to say, no more than a name now, but still, she doesn’t finish. He can’t say he blames her. “It’s been hard. We have nightmares, and we keep thinking someone’s in our house, or…” 

“We’d feel a lot safer if you were there,” Rufus finally says, before hesitating. “Only if you want. You don’t have to, we’ll be fine, it’s just-we thought, if you wanted somewhere to stay…”

He trails off, as Flynn’s mind races. He has so many questions. Why him? After everything he put them through, why would they trust him to keep watch? Wouldn’t his presence make it harder for them to sleep? Since when do they trust him so much? Does he even deserve it? (This, at least, he knows the answer to: Of course not.) 

But what is the alternative? To fall asleep every night in a house of ghosts, slowly becoming one himself? That isn’t what Lorena would want for him. (And Iris.. He shudders, imagining her face if she saw him like this.) “Are you sure?” He asks quietly, because if they hesitate, he’ll decline. His comfort is not more important than theirs. 

Jiya beams at him, and Rufus grins, slightly more subdued than his wife, but still pleased. “We’re sure,” Rufus says, squeezing Jiya’s hand tightly. 

A tension he wasn’t even aware of drains inside of him, and he closes his eyes, logistics occuring to him. “I’ll have to sell my house,” he murmurs. “And it’s… Not exactly move-in ready.” 

This doesn’t seem to bother them. “We’ll help you clean it up,” Jiya offers, and his chest clenches. Them seeing the mess his house has become, the mess he has become? And it wouldn’t just be them, of course not, Lucy would offer to help, too, and the Logans-

“Yeah, man.” Wyatt actually smiles at him. “We’d be happy to.” 

They’re all staring at him, so hopeful, so excited, and all he can picture is how they’d react if they knew-if they  _ saw _ him-if they-

“I have to go,” he mutters, dropping a handful of cash on the table. Enough to pay for his and Lucy’s, at least, probably more. He doesn’t care. He has to get out of there. Immediately. Ignoring the jumbled protests of his former teammates, he does just that, nearly tripping in his haste to get back into his car. To get home.

He doesn’t look back. 

-

It’s hard to say how long he lays there on his couch, fading in and out of consciousness, voices echoing in his mind. Lucy, hurt and confused. Jiya and Rufus, startled and upset, asking if they did something wrong. Lorena, disappointed and concerned.

Why did he even go to that diner? There was no way it could possibly have ended well. It was selfish of him, to subject the others to his broken shards like that. Of course they were going to get hurt.  _ Stupid. Selfish. Monster. _

When he first hears the knock on the door, he almost ignores it. Whoever it is, they’ll go away eventually.

But they don’t.

The knocking isn’t forceful or loud, but it’s persistent. Every few seconds, another round. Finally, just to make the noise stop, he rises, running a hand absently through his hair, and opens the door enough to peek out. 

_ Of course. _

Rufus and Jiya stand there, with understanding smiles, (far too understanding, after the things he’s done to them, not to mention the way he behaved today) and a stack of boxes. “It’s just us,” Jiya says, when he doesn’t speak. “Can we come in?” 

What is he going to say?

He steps back, heart sinking, and turns to the living room, not quite brave enough to watch their reactions.  _ Oh,  _ but it’s even worse than he realized; take-out boxes and beer bottles strewn along the floor, rumpled blankets on the couch, and shattered knick-knacks on the ground from the times rage and heartbreak have been too much for him. (Hurling them at the wall never really makes him feel better, but he always tries.) 

For a long moment, they are silent. Then, Jiya clears her throat. “Okay,” she says, perfectly businesslike, as if this is the most normal sight in the world. “Let’s get started.” 

She pauses, and he turns to find her watching him expectantly, waiting for permission. And he wants to give it, he does, but…

As if reading his mind, she smiles reassuringly. “Lucy’s babysitting Sherry, and Agent Christopher has the Logans and Mason consulting on a new project. Top secret, apparently. It’s just us.” She squeezes his arm once, and he can feel his resolve fading. “Let us help.”

He cannot-he  _ cannot  _ tell her no. 

“Please,” he murmurs, eyes falling shut. “Please.”

-

The first half hour is the easiest. Takeout boxes and empty bottles are bagged up, along with anything else that Jiya and Rufus deem “trash.” The living room is mostly empty; anything of value, he has already broken beyond repair, so he sees no reason to fight them. 

The tension in him uncoils as they clean, as Rufus teases him about a particularly ridiculous getup he’d worn time-traveling, and Jiya halfheartedly tries to defend him. (It truly had been hideous, but he’s not about to admit that to Rufus, of all people.) 

He relaxes.

His first mistake, he supposes. 

It happens so fast, he hardly sees it coming. Rufus picks up up crumpled piece of paper, tossing it into the trash without a thought. The gears in Flynn’s mind turn, trying to place what it is. 

_ Click. _

“No!” 

They must think him some sort of madman as he moves, yanking the sack from the younger man’s hands, digging through it frantically. His fingers catch on shards of pottery, but he does not care, does not _ care, _ only cares about finding that page before it’s lost forever.

“Flynn-” Rufus starts, but quickly trails off at the near-inhuman noise that slips from his lips. 

_ No, no, please no, it can’t be- _

Jiya’s hands settle on his shoulders, gentle but firm. He glares up at her instinctively, but when she does not falter, his fury fades, replaced with simple desperation. “I have to find it,” he whispers, eyes burning fiercely. “I have to-” 

She tugs the bag from his hands-far gentler than he was with Rufus-and gives a shaky smile. “Let me.” 

Within seconds, she retrieves it. There’s a small smudge of grease on the top right corner, from one of the many empty containers, but otherwise, it is perfect. He clutches it tightly, willing his breathing to even out. 

He can feel their eyes on him, knows they will not ask, but knows they deserve the truth. “It’s the last drawing my-my daughter made,” he admits quietly. “I’d forgotten it was in here.” She hadn’t been happy with it, had crumpled it into a ball and tossed it on the floor with a pout. 

_ “Daddy, why can’t I do it?”  _

He can still hear his own voice, full of naive certainty.  _ “Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’ll learn. It’ll just take some time.” _

Rufus and Jiya come around to look, taking in the faded crayon marks. “It’s beautiful,” Jiya says quietly. It’s not, of course; not objectively. It’s a child’s scribbles. But to him, it’s the most lovely thing in the world, and he appreciates them pretending that they see it the same way. He grapples for the words to tell them as much, but comes up dreadfully short. 

“It was our family,” he says instead. “The three of us. And-a dog.” Throat tight, he mutters, “Iris was-hinting. She wanted a dog. But I always told her ‘later,’ I always…” It’s too much,  _ too much,  _ he can’t  _ breathe-  _ “I always thought we’d have ‘later.’” 

He isn’t aware of his knees giving out, is hardly aware of Rufus and Jiya at his sides, lowering him to the floor.  _ His family _ -he can’t remember the last time he’s cried for them, but now he can’t stop. Memories flood him from every side, and he’s powerless, utterly powerless to fight them. This war was supposed to save his family,  _ he  _ was supposed to save his family, and now he’ll never get another chance, Iris will never get to learn to draw, will never get her dog, he  _ failed  _ them-

“No you didn’t.” Jiya’s voice is gentle. Steady. It soothes him, even as his mind rejects her words. “You  _ didn’t. _ ”

Time fades away as he weeps. For his family, for his team, and for himself. Gradually, he becomes aware of arms around him, of a hand on his back.  _ Jiya. Rufus.  _ They’re still there, still holding him together. It’s almost enough to send him into a new bout of tears. 

Still. He wipes his eyes, discomfort starting to sink in. The only people he’s ever truly cried in front of are Lorena and Lucy. (And only once with Lucy. But when Rittenhouse fell, he’d been so relieved and exhausted that he’d shattered on the spot, and she-well. She hadn’t faltered.) “I-ah, I’m-”

“Okay, if you apologize, I’m seriously going to hit you with something.” Jiya smiles, softening the warning, but her eyes are serious. (And a little red, he notes. Was she crying for him?) 

He turns to Rufus, who holds up his hands in surrender. “Hey, I’m not gonna argue with her.” Then, he sobers. “Seriously, though… Everything you’ve been though, I’d be a little worried if you didn’t cry sometimes.”

Ridiculously,  _ that _ is what makes him laugh. It’s watery, broken, but  _ still,  _ it feels good. He’s missed laughing, has missed the comfort of being surrounded by people when the world feels like it’s falling apart. (Granted, he rarely leaned on them, not that they were aware of. Instead, he bickered with them-or gossiped with, in Jiya’s case-until the pain faded into the recesses of his mind.) 

Still.

He’s suddenly looking forward to sharing a home with them.

“Well.” He rises, not quite steady, but Rufus and Jiya each take an elbow, gently guiding him up. “That’s the living room, I think. Kitchen? That is,” he adds, uncertainty creeping in, “if you still want to-”

“Kitchen,” Jiya echoes firmly, giving him a push. 

A pause, then- “Do you have any food? I’m starving.” 

(He does not, in fact, have food. At least not anything that isn’t outdated, expired, or suspiciously green. But they never flinch, just order enough pizza to share, and the ache in his chest lessens, just a bit.) 

-

The next few days pass mostly without incident. Agent Christopher is keeping the others busy, which means that Lucy is busy babysitting. (Flynn is starting to wonder if this project Denise has them on is real, or if she’s just distracting them, buying time.) 

There are a few hiccups, when he runs across forgotten memories, but nothing close to that first breakdown. By silent agreement, they don’t touch Iris’s room, but the kitchen, guest room, bathrooms, and eventually even his room are cleaned and boxed up, ready to go. (That is easier than he expects. Maybe because he expects it to hurt so much that he’s bracing himself, and the pain never has a chance to sink in.) 

But finally, they can avoid it no longer.

“Do you want us to leave?” Jiya squeezes his arm gently. “It’s okay to say yes.” 

And… He should, probably. This is going to hurt, no doubt about it.

Still, he hesitates. The thought of facing this alone is-well. He knows himself. If he tries, he’ll be sitting outside her door for hours, not even able to open it. And they’ve been solid and steady and sure. He does not deserve this, he knows that, but…

“Will you… Stay?” 

He knows they feel the weight of the request, and he won’t fault them if they say no-this isn’t their responsibility-but dread settles in his stomach at their silence. 

“Of course,” Rufus says finally, and Flynn doesn’t even bother to hide his relief.

He reaches for the handle, but when his hand closes around it, he freezes. Suddenly, he’s back in that night, gunshots ringing out in every direction, opening the door just in time to see that he’s too late, far too late. No escape. No way to save them.  _ No- _

When hands cover his, he flinches in surprise, but then he remembers: Rufus. Jiya. Right. They each have a hand on his, and Jiya nods encouragingly. “Together, okay?”

Together. 

Maybe he can’t do this, but they can.

The door swings open, and he swallows hard. The room is lighter than he’s been picturing, not wrapped in shadows and death. Sunlight dances off the faded walls, and he would almost think it was a lazy Saturday morning, that he was sneaking in to surprise Iris with pancakes for breakfast, if it wasn’t for the fact that every piece of furniture was missing.

No bloodstains, at least. (He’s not quite sure he could have handled that.) 

A few stray toys litter the floor, and a strand of sparkly pink beads hangs from the closet door, but otherwise, there’s no sign anyone has ever been in there. Law enforcement must have taken everything. 

When the breakdown he expects does not hit, he steps inside, kneeling beside the first toy: A ragged Barbie doll, with matted hair and one missing limb. It must have had a name; Iris named all of them.  _ Sue,  _ his mind supplies. He runs a thumb over the dusty dress, the buttons hanging on by a thread. 

Lorena worked so hard on that dress. 

“Flynn?” Rufus’s voice is low. Cautious. Afraid of startling him, maybe. “You with us?” 

Clearing his throat, he nods. “Still here.” He sets Sue aside, does not have the heart to decide what to do with her just yet, and sets to work, gathering the scattered toys. Rufus and Jiya linger, watching, but not actually touching anything. Just waiting for him to set the tone. “We’ll need a bag,” he mutters, finally. 

“I’ll get it.” Jiya vanishes down the hallway, and he moves to the strand of beads. 

Her “princess beads.” He smiles, letting his eyes fall shut. “She wore these every day.” Somehow, he knows Rufus is listening. “Wouldn’t ever go anywhere without them.  _ No, Daddy, we can’t go yet! Where’s my princess beads? _ ” He chuckles. “Used to be so annoying, you know? We’d be running late, and she’d have to run back upstairs and get these stupid things. I could barely talk her out of sleeping with them.” 

Rufus says nothing, but after a moment, Flynn feels a hand resting on his shoulder, solid and assuring. For a moment, he half expects to break, but no tears come, and he takes a steadying breath, laying the beads on top of the toys. 

JIya clears her throat, alerting them to her presence. When he turns, she gives him a gentle smile, holding out several trash bags. “What now, boss?” Her voice is soft. 

It makes his lips twitch, even if he cannot muster a smile. “Now, the closet.” He opens it slowly, and exhales. It must not have had anything law enforcement considered evidence, because it looks like it has not been touched since that fateful night. He isn’t quite sure whether or not to be relieved.

His eyes catch on the dusty sandals tucked into the corner. “She only wore these once. Said they hurt her feet.” 

And so it goes for the next several hours, Rufus and Jiya patiently listening as he goes through every single item, telling little stories and memories attached to each one. He apologizes, once-it would go much faster if he just bagged things up without talking about everything-but Jiya smacks him with her purse strap, and tells him to take as long as he needs. And when it’s finally over, when his daughter’s room is reduced to half a dozen plastic bags, he falls apart in their arms, a jumble of prayers and sobs falling from his lips. 

“We’re here,” Jiya says quietly, and Rufus echoes her. “We’re right here.”

-

His room isn’t small, but it isn’t huge, either. 

He doesn’t mind; it isn’t like he has many things to keep. Some things are in storage, tucked away until he’s ready to deal with them. Some are on their way to family. (And that is Jiya, all Jiya. She makes the calls he cannot, boxes up anything he asks her to, and talks him through every step of the way.) 

Much of it is gone, either trashed or donated. That should probably hurt, but just at the moment, all he can feel is relief. 

It’s over.

It’s finally over.

He sprawls back on the bed, absently running a finger across the comforter. Burgundy. He still is not quite sure how Jiya learned his favorite color, but his entire room has been transformed into a sea of dark red. (He does not quite know how to tell her that he never cared for burgundy, until a strange woman found him in a bar, her dress the darkest shade of it. Maybe they know how he feels about Lucy, and he thinks that might be the sort of things friends talk about, but he cannot quite remember. It has been so, so long…) 

_ Knock, knock.  _

He frowns. “Come in?” 

The door opens just a crack, and Jiya sticks her head in. “Hey! Dinner's almost ready.” 

Dinner? “I was going to get a sandwich later.” Her face falls, and he clarifies. “I don't want to intrude.” 

She relaxes with a roll of her eyes. “Flynn, what part of ‘We want you to live with us’ means ‘Hole yourself up in your room and don't talk to us’? If you want to, that's fine, but… We want you around. And that includes dinner. Your call, but…” She grins. “I made spaghetti, and if the way Rufus keeps ‘testing’ it is anything to go by, it's pretty good.” 

Of course it is. 

He follows her downstairs, only half trying to pretend that it is because of the food. 

Rufus beams when they come down, and he finds himself returning it. “Finally! I thought I was going to have to eat all of this by myself!”

Jiya turns back to him conspiratorially. “You’d think he’d never heard of leftovers.”

Dinner passes much this way, with Jiya and Rufus cheerfully filling him in on their work at Mason Industries, and him filling a plate, then two, with Jiya’s spaghetti. (There are not, in fact, any leftovers.) He’s fairly sure that the project they’re telling him about is a government secret, and it’s oddly flattering that they trust him enough to tell him anyway.

It’s only once plates are empty, and the three of them are drowsily talking, that Jiya addresses him. “How are you settling in?” 

“I-” He stops. Considers. He has not had a bed anywhere but in the bunker and at his house in more than a decade, and it’s strange to know that has changed. “It’s nice. Your house, it… It’s lovely.” He does not know how to tell them what they are offering him, how very much he feels in their debt. “And my room, it…” He exhales, eyes falling shut. “Thank you.”

“Thank _you,_ ” Jiya echoes firmly, resting a hand against his shoulder.

Rufus nods. “Seriously, I think I might actually sleep tonight.” 

There is nothing more to say, so he simply gathers up the plates, ignoring Jiya’s protests that he is not their housekeeper. It is something to do, a way to keep his hands and his mind busy. 

Afterward, he finds himself curled on one end of the couch, as Jiya and Rufus snuggle on the other. It is a Star Trek evening, he has been informed, and he is welcome to join them. As the episode progresses, Jiya stretches out, her head resting on Rufus’s lap, her feet on Flynn’s. There’s something cozy about that, even as a man falls in love with an abstract concept onscreen. 

Perhaps one more night sleeping on a couch will be okay. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!


End file.
